


Shifting Shadows

by aquietdin



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Mentions of Blood, Pre-Relationship, spoilers for 2.1-2.55, various povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26631247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquietdin/pseuds/aquietdin
Summary: She had never been in love before. Perhaps this was what it felt like.[snippets of my WoL's experiences of the events of A Realm Reborn patches 2.1 to 2.55.]
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone & Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. The Scent of the Forest

It had been some weeks since she’d braved the snows of Coerthas, and if Elora was honest with herself, she was not looking forward to it. Even attuned to the Aetheryte as she was, a bitterly cold wind assaulted her before her feet even touched the ground at Camp Dragonhead. Huffing in annoyance, she pulled up her collar and began descending the steps to the keep.

The inner chamber was warm, albeit comparatively so, but at least the air was still. She’d barely closed the door behind her when a cheerful voice bounced through the room.

“Elora, dear friend! ‘Tis wonderful to see you!”

She smiled softly. Nothing could dampen the spirits of Lord Haurchefant, it seemed. He’d all but bounded from his chair to greet her, a wide grin splitting his face.

“That you should take time to visit warms my heart. To what do we owe the pleasure, my good lady?”

Elora unclasped the top buttons of her cloak. “Ill tidings, I’m afraid. A shipment bound for Mor Dhona from Camp Dragonhead was attacked and pillaged.”

His smile vanished in an instant, and Haurchefant sighed. “Only moments ago did I receive an urgent missive from Mor Dhona, I was set to open it when you arrived. I assume its contents are on this matter.”

She nodded, shivering. “Most likely.”

Haurchefant’s expression softened as he gestured towards the hearth. “Come, let us discuss this by the fire.”

To be nearer to warmth was enough for Elora, but the Lord of the camp was hospitable to a fault, and soon offered her a goblet of hot mulled wine. She sipped while Haurchefant took a seat beside her and opened the missive, scanning over the parchment quickly.

“A most unfortunate development,” he said quietly, folding the paper once again. “Would that I could say it was a surprise - alas, this is all but expected, given recent developments in Coerthas.” He frowned deeply, lowering his voice as he folded the missive. “Friend… I must tell you: I am sorry. I was the first to hear the call from the other city states when Garlemond attacked. Though I petitioned the Holy See most ardently on behalf of joining the battle to drive back the empire, I had not the power or sway to convince my fellow countrymen.”

Elora looked down at her wine. Many had given their lives to defend Eorzea that day, and she had nearly been among them. She could not pretend she’d not been vexed by Ishgard’s absence on the front. “Had we failed, Garlemond would have had the means to raze the entire continent with little effort.”

A weary sigh pushed past the elezen’s lips. “I am well aware, and haunted by it. Praise Halone that you were there to see them stopped.”

In the glow of the fire, Elora took note of the dark circles that lined his eyes. He looked to be lacking proper sleep, the hollows of his cheeks casting sharp shadows and dulling his usually boundless enthusiasm. “Ishgard’s struggles with violent heretics and internal conflicts are long standing,” Haurchefant spoke. “Even before the Calamity, before the endless winter compounded our troubles.”

Elora blinked, setting her half empty goblet aside. “I’m not familiar with this region of Eorzea, though I have heard that Coerthas was once a lush forest.”

A wistful longing passed over Haurchefant’s features, his eyes softening as they tracked to the glowing embers in the hearth. “It was indeed. A rich land with distinct seasons, my home once was, rolling green hills of proud pines and thick underbrush. As a boy I took particular delight in the year’s first flowers as they blossomed forth from melting snow.” He was silent for a precious moment, his gaze far away in some distant memory. Then Haurchefant snapped to attention once again, smiling. “But it will do little good to dwell upon the past - not when the present so demands our attention.”

And the subject was dropped as Haurchefant returned to the matter of the heretics and the waylaid caravan, though Elora watched him ever more keenly from that point on.

  
  


\-----

  
  


As irritated as Elora was to not be able to pursue the strange woman atop the cliff - who was likely the Iceheart they sought - she couldn’t say if it would have done any good otherwise. There was still too little information - and facing a foe unprepared was a recipe for disaster and death. She trudged back to Camp Dragonhead to relay her findings to Haurchefant. The man’s ever present joyful intensity would be a welcome change from the vicious freeze of Snowcloak.

Haurchefant seemed his usual cheerful self, despite Elora’s troubling report - though the signs of weariness persisted in the bags under his eyes and the way he rolled his neck as though it pained him. He carried a great burden, however little he chose to let it show, bending over a thick stack of paperwork with stiff limbs. As she made to return to Mor Dhona, Elora took a moment to search her bag for a trinket, one she’d purchased for herself. It was meant to give her peace while on her many adventures, but perhaps it would be better suited in the hands of another.

“Lord Haurchefant?”

He looked up from his desk, his quill stilling in his hand, and smiled at her though it was strained. “Is there aught else you require, my friend?”

Elora held out her hand. “Take this.”

Surprise crossed his brow as Haurchefant opened his palm. Elora dropped the item into his hand; a tiny glass phial, sealed tight with a cork, filled with pale green liquid. He brought it to his face and frowned in confusion.

“Fine aromatic oil,” she explained, “Crafted in Gridania. It carries the fragrance of the forest in spring.”

Haurchefant’s eyes widened as he looked from the bottle to her. So intense was his gaze that she found herself flustered.

“This…” he said slowly, reverently closing his fingers around the gift. “And what have I done to warrant such generosity?”

Her cheeks gained a touch of heat. “You were kind to me,” Elora said plainly.

There was a moment where the tension seemed to bleed out of his shoulders, if only a bit. Haurchefant’s smile was gentle, as was his voice. “I shall treasure it.”

Elora nodded at him and left the keep, oddly pleased with herself.

.


	2. A Man Charmed

When Haurchefant had sent word to Ishgard regarding Lady Iceheart and requesting aid, he did not presume to expect the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights to make a personal appearance in Camp Dragonhead. He tamped down his excitement and prepared a pot of tea for his arrival. Much had he heard of the new commander, all of it glowing. Perhaps he could learn something from so great a man.

The heavy wooden doors clacked open, sending a burst of freezing wind sweeping into the room.

“Lord Commander Aymeric and Commander Lucia!” A guard announced. Haurchefant turned to greet them. The leader of the Temple Knights cut an imposing figure as he strode across the room, a tall hyuran woman by his side. Blinking, Haurchefant studied the man. His beautifully detailed robes and armor aside, Aymeric de Borel was  _ devastatingly _ handsome, a detail that had been left out of the many tales.

“Welcome to Camp Dragonhead, Lord Commander,” Haurchefant bowed. “I trust your journey was without incident?”

Aymeric smiled softly. “Indeed it was, Lord Haurchefant, though the winds are quite sharp this day.”

Stepping to the side, Haurchefant gestured at the table and chairs beside him. “Pray take rest if you have need. May I offer a hot drink to drive away the cold?”

The two Temple Knights exchanged brief glances. “Thank you,” Aymeric said, taking a seat. “Your hospitality is appreciated.”

Haurchefant went about cheerfully pouring the tea, the warm scent of cinnamon filling the room. Lucia, quite the dedicated soldier, declined to sit, but accepted the cup of tea that Haurchefant offered nonetheless. Aymeric sipped his drink with dignified grace.

“The Warrior of Light should arrive soon,” Haurchefant said cheerfully. “I sent word not long ago, but now that the Scions are stationed in Mor Dhona, it is but a short journey.”

Aymeric smiled. “Eager am I to meet this fabled adventurer. I’ve heard many tales.”

“You’ll not be disappointed, Lord Commander.” Haurchefant beamed. “I’ve had the pleasure of fighting beside her, and I will attest that she is a veritable one woman army.”

Taking another sip of his tea, Aymeric lowered the cup. “I have heard other rumors as well.” He smiled knowingly. “They say that she has claimed the hearts of many in her travels.”

Haurchefant may have choked on his tea, had he not been mindful. He could not feign to have not heard similar whisperings - many of his own he’d observed waxing poetic about the bane of primals. And he could hardly blame them. He’d been struck by her upon first sight, her red hair and brilliant eyes effortlessly capturing his attention, well before he’d seen her impressive skill with a lance. “Aye, she is indeed a great beauty. I’ve no doubt she has disarmed foes with her loveliness alone.”

One of Aymeric’s eyebrows arched high. “You speak as a man charmed, Lord Haurchefant?”

The tips of his ears felt warm as Haurchefant made no attempt to hide. “Perhaps.”

The Lord Commander took another sip of his tea, then set the cup aside. “Aware am I that the whims of fancy are often beyond our control. But you would do well to ensure your heart does not override your greater senses.”

Staring into his tea, Haurchefant fought back a frown. “Sound advice, Ser Aymeric.”

.


	3. Blessed

Haurchefant Greystone of House Fortemps was known as a cheerful and approachable man, and in this he took pride. Copious were life’s misfortunes to even the most prosperous, and he knew the value of taking joy in simple pleasures. A hot cup of tea after a cold trek, a friendly conversation, a clear sky and bright sunlight. He’d been told before that it was foolish of him to find comfort in such things, childish even; but he considered his days full and blessed.

Ever more so as of late.

A storm howled outside the Camp Dragonhead keep, but within its walls was warm and serene. Haurchefant smiled to himself. Blessed, to be sure - with a crackling fire, a soft blanket, and a beautiful woman in his arms.

Not that the last detail had been planned.

His guards had burst in from the storm an hour before, carrying an unconscious figure they’d claimed to have found all but buried in the snow. Haurchefant had rushed to their aid, only to pull back the woolen hood and discover, horrified, that it was Elora, her face pale and lips nearly blue. The healer was summoned at once, but she bore no injury - only a deathly cold that weakened her pulse.

In the five years since Coerthas had seen its brutal shift in climate, the people of Ishgard had learned well the means for treating hypothermia. Her body needed to be warmed gradually, lest he risk her succumbing to shock. So he took it upon himself, rather than leave her to the healers, to see to her well-being. With his chainmail replaced with garments that were soft to the touch, Haurchefant sat on the furs on his floor beside the hearth and gathered her body to his, draping a blanket over her for good measure. Even through the layers of her clothing she was cold enough to send goosebumps rippling over his flesh, but he held fast, occasionally dipping his head to listen to her heartbeat. It slowly grew stronger as her body thawed, one of her ears twitching under his chin.

He’d indulged in fantasies of such a scenario once or twice before, but it had been with considerably less risk of life. And a touch less clothing.

Elora stirred in his arms, shifting against him with a small, breathy sound. A sign her health was returning, to be sure, but also lovely to his ears. Haurchefant gazed down at the top of her head and smiled as one of her hands began rhythmically opening and closing against his shirt. He’d known only a few miqo’te in his life. A curious people with curious mannerisms, but also considerably secretive about them.

He felt it before he heard it: a gentle rumble, so soft against his chest, vibrating out from her ribs. Haurchefant held his breath and listened, breaking into a wide grin. There was no mistaking it - this was the fabled miqo’te  _ purr, _ of which he was nearly convinced was nothing more than rumor, as its existence was vehemently denied by all who could have been capable of it. It was such a delightful sound and sensation that he fought the urge to squeeze her tight, instead pressing his nose into her hair.

A most blessed man he was indeed.

.


	4. Rest

The hero business, it turned out, was far less glamorous than advertised.

Elora’s legs screamed in protest as she ascended the steps of the Observatorium to where Drillemont and Aymeric awaited her report. Could they have stayed on the lower level? Why was she being made to climb after having to dispatch with yet another primal force? Did no one even stop to consider what a mammoth task she’d set out to do?

Iceheart, and subsequently Shiva, had not been a pleasant encounter. It had left Elora frozen to the bone, sore, hungry, thirsty, and utterly spent. Whatever catastrophe arose next could wait until she’d had a proper bath, a meal, and a very long sleep. Not necessarily in that order.

Aymeric and Drillemont were in high spirits as she finally hauled herself to the third level of the tower; as was expected of two men who were able to reap the benefits of her battle without having to do any of the work. Alphinaud cast her a sympathetic glance, and it calmed some of Elora’s irritation. At least one of these men understood her plight.

Once the issue of the supply shipment had been settled, Aymeric turned to her with a sly smile. “On that note… Elora-- might I trouble you to accompany me to Camp Dragonhead? ‘Tis not for my benefit. A certain lord was  _ most  _ distressed when he learned of your intent to risk life and limb to stop Iceheart. It took half a dozen knights to restrain him, I’m told.”

Her eyes widened, then her whole body seemed to pinch in exasperation. Haurchefant. Of course.  _ Of course. _

Aymeric’s chuckle was almost silent, but not enough for her to miss.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Nearly every guard turned to watch as Elora all but limped across Camp Dragonhead towards the keep. Aymeric and Lucia took their leave of her, as did Alphinaud, with a promise to convene and debrief once she’d rested. The gesture was most appreciated, especially given how the stone steps in front of her were beginning to sway.

A guard opened the door for her, and a gust of snow followed in her wake as she stepped into the keep. All activity within seemed to cease at once, the popping of the fire in the hearth the only sound for several moments.

On the other side of the large center table stood Haurchefant, his arms folded behind his back. Though he was frozen as he stared at her, he looked as though he’d just been pacing. His eyes went impossibly wide - and then the bubble burst.

“Elora!” he shouted, darting around the table towards her, his chain mail clinking as he moved. “What were you  _ thinking? _ Wagering your very being on a dubious theory which  _ might  _ allow you to enter Iceheart’s lair--”

She stared up at him, neck aching, too weary to respond. Haurchefant continued his emotional tirade for several seconds before finally seeming to notice, trailing off. One of his hands came to hold her bicep as she tilted to the left.

“Are you injured? Shall I send for the healer?” His voice had gone soft.

Elora shook her head. “Tired,” was all she managed.

He took one of her hands and curled it around his elbow. And, just like he had on their first meeting, Haurchefant led her out of the keep. This time, however, she’d come to trust the man, and let her eyes droop closed as her boots scuffed on stone, then snow, then more stone. A heavy clack of wood and metal. Then warmth, washing over her.

Haurchefant nudged her to a more awake state and directed her to a bed, which she sat on heavily, feeling the mattress sink under her weight. Satisfied she wouldn’t fall over, he moved to the nearby hearth to deposit a log onto a bed of glowing embers. Elora lost track of him as he went about the room, fading in and out of consciousness. Her ears rang painfully.

“Here,” Haurchefant’s voice startled her out of a near sleep. “Drink this.”

It was a mug he offered, full of steaming liquid that smelled absolutely heavenly - a restorative tincture, one she’d had many times in her adventures, when the weariness became too much, though she’d never had it served  _ hot _ .

Kneeling before her, Haurchefant sighed, his hands resting atop the mattress to frame her hips. “I was beside myself with worry for your safety.” he admitted. “The thought of you never returning - it was more than I could bear.”

Elora emptied her mug with a sigh. “Sorry to have caused you trouble.”

His smile was so warm as he shook his head, his gossamer hair swinging against his cheeks. “Pray do not apologize. Rest here for as long as you will. I’ll see to it you are not disturbed.”

Haurchefant took the mug from her hands and stood, looking down at her as if to say something. But he only grinned and exited, the door clicking shut behind him.

The fire in the hearth popped as the log began to burn. Elora had just enough strength left to clumsily remove her outer layers of armor and jackets, letting them fall to the floor in a heap and shucking off her boots. The blankets on the bed were heavy as she slipped under them, dragging a pillow closer with a tired groan. She paused. The smell that filled her nose was incredibly familiar. Where…?

Glancing around, her exhaustion left the room only half in focus. Other than the bed she occupied, there was a desk stacked with books, a tall chair, and a frosted window from which light poured in. An armoire, another chair, and a small table nearby. On it, cobbled with more books and a flask, was a tiny clay basin - in which sat a little phial of green liquid, sealed with a cork.

Elora blinked. Then her eyes popped wide.

That was the aromatic oil she’d given Haruchefant only days prior. And if it was here, then--

She rubbed her forehead as her face turned warm.  _ Hells. _ This was Haurchefant’s chamber. This was  _ his bed. _

Had she her wits, she would have gotten up and requested different lodging.

But Elora did not, the quilts pinning her to the mattress, the fire comforting. The siren song of an undisturbed sleep could not be denied as her head dropped against the soft pillow, inhaling deep the scent that lingered there.

When she awoke some hours later, the room darkened, it was to Haurchefant snoring softly from a chair by the fire, still in his chainmail, slumped in sleep.

.


	5. Dragoon

Another day, another mountain of letters, documents, and reports that demanded his attention. Haurchefant paused to rub his tired eyes. He would never openly complain, for such things were his duty as lord of Camp Dragonhead, and he took pride in his position. To keep such an important outpost running was no small task, but he could not help that occasionally he daydreamed of joining his knights in the field, felling foes and seeking adventure. He was long overdue for a bit of time on the training grounds.

He signed a letter, set it aside, and reached for the next. He’d hardly read the first word when a terrible screech came from outside, one so loud it caused all in the room to freeze in place.

The horrible sound came again, louder. Haurchefant’s chair scraped against the stone as he leaped to his feet and rushed to the door, many of his knights doing the same. A blast of frozen air could have knocked them over as it thrust into the chamber, a thick blizzard howling.

Another screech rang out, much closer. Haurchefant knew that sound. “My sword and shield!” he bellowed. There was no mistake - a dragon was dangerously close to the camp. A knight brought his weapons, and Haurchefant armed himself. He would not suffer the presence of a dravanian on his watch.

The guards at the western gate began waving their arms, then turned and ran towards the keep. As they did, a dark mass crashed into the ground just beyond the camp border, enough to send a tremor through the stone foundation. Haurchefant slid to a stop and grimaced. It must have been a dozen yalms in length or more, snarling and thrashing and kicking up snow. He was ready to charge when he noticed another figure, tangled with the beast. The dragon flicked its tail, sending its assailant flying into the camp to roll across the cobble and roll to a halt, a lance clattering away.

Haurchefant’s eyes widened in shock. He knew that figure. He would know her presence if he were struck blind, so unlike any warrior he had ever met, with an inner fire that rivaled the sun itself.

Elora clamored to her feet and snarled, her face and armor covered in scratches, a splattering of dragon blood staining her chest piece and pauldrons.

His heart fluttered in his chest. “Elo--”

“Do not interfere!” She cried, dashing forward to retrieve her lance. She stormed towards the dragon, crouching on the stone before darting straight upwards into the air, hovering for a moment, then crashing down upon the beast with blinding speed.

Had he not been amazed with her by then, which he very much was, such a display would have shaken him to his core. These abilities were of the order of Dragoons, the sacred protectors of his homeland. Haurchefant’s heart thumped hard against his ribs.

The dragon howled, then collapsed into the snow, lifeless. The entire camp was still and silent as Elora hauled herself from the corpse, her breath fogging thick in the frozen air as she panted with exertion. Haurchefant stepped towards her, slowly and carefully, keeping his weapon drawn lest the monster stir.

Elora kicked the dragon, stumbling a bit, then pulled a long knife from her belt and began sawing through the hide on its neck, turning her face away as a spray of blood erupted from the cut. She cursed once or twice, hacking away at bone and sinew until the dragon’s head came loose, flopping to the ground and staining the snow deep red. Sheathing her blade, she bent to grab it by a horn, and turned to face him.

The sight stole his very breath away. Lovely Elora, battle worn and blood stained, holding proof of single handedly defeating a dragon. So beautiful was she that his body lurched, twisting as he fought the impulse to run to her, sweep her up in his arms, and never let go. Haurchefant’s pulse thrummed in his veins, clouding his head with such untamed want that the only response he could muster was a breathless,  _ “Magnificent.” _

Elora blinked at him as though woken from a trance. She turned to look back at the remains of her prey and frowned. “I did not mean to bring this to your doorstep,” she rasped, her voice raw.

Haurchefant shook his head, his grin impossibly wide, almost unable to contain his delight. “Do not be troubled, my friend. You have done us a great service by felling the beast, my men shall see to the carcass.”

She nodded, stooping to retrieve her lance. “I must deliver this,” she said, nodding towards the severed head.

He stared as a drop of sweat rolled from her temple to her chin, licking his lips as it tracked down her neck and vanished under her armor. “And once you are done,” Haurchefant said, his throat turning dry, “Pray return to me, so that we might celebrate your triumph.”

Elora only tilted her head, then walked away, leaning heavily on her lance. The severed dragon head left a trail of blood as she made for the southern gate, Haurchefant tracking her every move with unabashed hunger.

.


	6. Grief

A bright gloom glowed over the skies of Mor Dhona, the air heavy with the sharp tang of alkaline. Traders and travelers went about their business, adventurers stopping to rest, merchants peddling goods. Children played in the streets, laughing, lit by the soft light of the Aetheryte crystal.

She had to get out of there.

Elora shut the window that she’d been gazing from, high above the city. From that distance, Mor Dhona looked to be peaceful, but it was not the slightest bit comforting. Her skin felt too tight, a restless itch in her limbs that left her pacing and clenching her hands. She hadn’t felt like she truly occupied her own body in days, as though she were viewing the world through another’s eyes. Every little shadow made her tense, expecting to turn and see a dragon, and while there was nothing there more often than not, she could feel him. Midgardsormr hovered on the edge of her mind, always present but out of reach, unable to be expelled.

Maybe if she’d been more wary, guarded herself more, the great wyrm would not have been able to reach inside her so easily. Perhaps she could have stopped him from snuffing out the light of Hydaelyn, an act that had left her gasping for breath as though she’d been struck. Perhaps she wouldn’t have lost the means to repel the Ascians from their sacred base.

Perhaps Moenbryda would still be alive.

A melancholy hung heavy over the Rising Stones, each of its residents taken to their own method of grieving. The pervasive silence made an uncomfortable tension rise in Elora: unable to make it right by her friends, powerless to punish those responsible, and deaf to the voice of the Crystal.

She was saddling her chocobo before she realized it. Anywhere. She wanted to go  _ anywhere _ else, away from the pain of death and failure, away from the torment that left her unable to think, away from how her heart ached hollow in the absence of Hydaelyn’s gift. Half heartedly steering her mount, Elora paid little attention to where she rode, only snapping to attention when a bitterly cold wind hit her.

She hadn’t even noticed crossing the border into Coerthas.

Her chocobo chirped as she pulled the reins to slow and stop. Elora was hardly fitted for a trek through the frigid lands, but returning to Mor Dhona - even if just to retrieve her coat - was not a favorable option. The despair that waited for her there was simply too much. So she pressed on. The sky was clear, the sun shining down on her and mitigating some of the cold that seeped through her clothes. It was less than an hour’s ride to Camp Dragonhead. She could make it before she froze.

The Ishgardian encampment, while always in a state of mild tension, was still considerably more cheerful than the city she’d left. The favorable weather saw the training grounds filled with knights, wielding swords and lances as they practiced. Laughter and chatter echoed through the stone keep, though it sounded far away somehow.

It hit her how absurd this was, to be riding into a Coerthas base without so much as a jacket, disoriented, and exhausted, all for the sake of running from her problems. Elora had a mind to endure the trip back to Mor Dhona in her shame when a voice called out.

“My friend!”

Haurchefant was striding across the camp towards her, his arms thrown wide and a jubilant grin splitting his face. All her chances to escape unnoticed vanished.

“What a fine day it is, ever more so for a visit from the Warrior of Light!” His chain mail clinked as he approached. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Elora stared down at him from her saddle. What explanation could she possibly offer for arriving in his camp unannounced, underdressed, half frozen to her death and hardly able to form a coherent thought? Haurchefant’s smile faded, his eyebrows pinching together as he studied her.

“What troubles you?” he asked, holding out a hand. She stared at it for several seconds before letting go of the reins to place her bare fingers in his, trembling numb and wind-burned red. When he gave her arm a gentle tug, Elora felt her body give. Invisible strings cut, she slumped off her mount and into his arms. Even as frozen as she was, the metal of his armor was colder against her cheek as he gathered her up and marched with purpose.

She let herself be cradled, too worn thin to give into pride.

Haurchefant brought her to his chamber and deposited her on the furs in front of the hearth, quickly stripping a thick blanket from his bed and draping it over her shoulders. He rubbed at her arms through the cloth to will some warmth back into them.

“Dearest Elora,” Haurchefant said softly, “Should you continue this trend of arriving nearly frozen at my door, I shall begin to suspect ulterior motives.” There was a teasing mirth in his voice as he looked down at her with a gentle smile, removing one of his gloves to take her hands. His palm was hot and calloused where it closed around her icy fingers. “I have urgent duties I must attend to, but I shall send for food and drink, and join you ere long.”

She just nodded, disconnected from her body. Haurchefant drew her in for a moment, his breath fanning hot against her scalp as he leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her hair. Then he stood and exited, leaving her alone with only the popping of the fire.

Corentiaux arrived a short while later, bringing with him a wooden box with bread and cheese, and an iron kettle which he placed near the fire. He stayed only long enough to serve her tea and assure that she was not injured, then exited. Haurchefant’s chambers were silent and still as she sipped from her mug.

An uncomfortable aura pressed against her mind. Turning, Elora saw the visage of Migardsormr’s dwarf from, hovering in the air nearby. It made a dread pool in her gut. “Leave me be,” she whispered.

Midgardsormr vanished, but Elora could feel a smugness lingering in the air he once occupied.

It was some time before Haurchefant returned, looking a touch out of breath, his hair windswept. “How fares my friend?” he asked, closing the door to shut out the cold. “Have you need of anything? I am at your disposal.”

She had recovered from the freezing weather and, other than the consuming sorrow that weighed down her limbs, felt quite comfortable. “I’m alright.”

Haurchefant seemed to scrutinize her for a moment, then smiled. “Glad am I to hear it. Permit me a change of clothing?”

Elora nodded, and Haurchefant wasted no time, unbuckling his gauntlets and belt where he stood. Her eyes went wide and she quickly turned her gaze to the fire as she realized he meant to undress right there. She should have expected as much from a man so open as he, but her face still flushed with embarrassment as sounds of shifting armor and cloth filled the room.

Haurchefant entered her field of view as he sat beside her on the furs, dressed in a modest tunic and jacket. It may have been the first time she’d seen him without his chain mail, nearly convinced that the noisy armor was fused with his body. One of his long arms coiled around her shoulders.

“While it is a joy to have you beside me,” Haurchefant said, “I sense you have come to me in great distress. Has aught happened?”

Elora sighed noisily, suddenly very tired. Where could she begin? What could she even afford to tell him? The discovery that Midgardsormr was not dead and still threatened them all? The loss of Hydaelyn’s light that left a gaping hole in her heart? That the lord of dragons had wormed his way into her mind, and now knew her every thought and action?

None of the above. Haurchefant would not keep it to himself the danger of the dragon hordes, the devoted knight he was, and such news would surely cause mass panic. She could not tell him that she’d been robbed of the blessings of the mother crystal, it would only cause him undo worry. And never,  _ never _ could she speak of how Migardsormr now all but possessed her to this most loyal son of Ishgard. He would surely cast her out, and she could not bear to lose another dear friend.

So she settled on the most recent cause of woe. “A member of our order has perished,” Elora said.

Haurchefant’s arm around her tightened. “‘Tis always a difficult thing.”

Shifting, Elora curled into his side. Haurchefant moved to accommodate her, creating a hollow space that she could sink into. With her head against his chest, she could feel the beating of his heart, steady and strong. He said nothing more, no grand words of encouragement, only let her silently grieve. The hand that wasn’t holding her gently stroked her hair.

Were it but a year prior, she would have scoffed at such a display, at letting herself be so small and weak against this man. But Haurchefant, for all his odd behavior, his often outrageous flirting, and boundless enthusiasm that seemed terribly out of place in Coerthas, had become a fixture in her life. Kind, warm, understanding; he did not question or doubt her, and had never once failed to offer his support in every way. It was why she found herself in Camp Dragonhead so often despite how she loathed the cold. Elora had discovered someone with whom she could let herself be frail, knowing that with Haurchefant, she was  _ safe. _

She had never been in love before. Perhaps this was what it felt like.

The fire burned down to embers, the room darkening as night approached. Elora dozed against him, her mind finally calming in his presence. Slowly and carefully, Haurchefant picked her up, and Elora let herself be pliant in his arms. He deposited her to the bed, climbing in beside her and tucking the blankets around them both. With a sigh she nestled her face against the hollow of his throat, content to sleep.

.


	7. Escape

The air was growing colder as they flew, whipping across the deck of Cid’s airship as though to lash at them. Elora sat heavily in a corner, not paying attention to anything other than the creaking of the deck below her. Alphinaud was at her side, huddled into a miserable ball, his knees drawn up to his chest.

“We’ll be in Coerthas soon,” Cid called over his shoulder.

Neither Elora nor Alphinaud responded.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recognized that she was terribly thirsty, not having been offered even a sip of water before she was cornered. Her legs ached from the mad dash to safety, her shirt was sticky with sweat and covered in sand, boots still damp with water from the channels where she left her friends behind. Alphinaud didn’t fare much better, his hair unkempt and tangled from the escape, his white clothes smudged with dirt.

The image of poor Nanamo gasping for breath as the poison took her replayed in Elora's mind, over and over, until her head was throbbing.

Cid deposited them in a field just south of Camp Dragonhead, far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to walk. He gave them a small nod, then took off, the Enterprise fading into the distant clouds. Elora hugged her thin cloak closer to her body as they began the climb to the camp, a persistent buzz filling her brain.

She barely noticed the elezen soldiers that ran to greet them, guiding them to the keep. As the warmth of a fire washed over them, Elora looked up to see Haurchefant, standing from his desk and nearly running to them. The sight of him broke through some of her stupor. “My friends,” he placed a hand on either of their shoulders. “I have heard the terrible news,” Haurchefant spoke as he ushered them closer to the hearth. “Fear not, for you may ever find shelter here.”

Alphinaud remained silent, staring at the floor. Elora glanced up into Haurchefant’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

\-----

Seeing Tataru alive and safe was such a relief that Elora fell to her knees and hugged the lalafell. This was all that was left of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn - a nervous clerk, a sixteen year old boy, and an exhausted warrior. Urianger was safe, but he was more content to bury his nose in tomes than go to battle. To say the odds were stacked against them would be a monumental understatement.

Haurchefant prepared a chamber for rest, food, and hot water for bathing. Washing away the desert sand eased some of the pain that beat between Elora’s temples, even if the spare garments provided were laughably too large. None protested sharing the one bed, either because of exhaustion or lingering distress. All was quiet as the lamp was extinguished, save for the popping of the fire.

A sniffle cut through the silence. Elora turned her head. Just left of her was the shape of Alphinaud, nearly buried beneath the quilts. He sniffled again, the sound shaky and wet. It seemed that though he appeared to have regained his vigor thanks to Haurchefant’s support, a sadness still prodded at him.

Elora shifted closer, wrapping one arm around his skinny shoulders, Alphinaud offering no resistance as he quietly cried. From his other side, Tataru crawled closer, huddling against his back.

Staring into the darkness, Elora made a vow: those responsible - for the death of the Sultana, the imprisonment of Raubahn, for their implication in a coup and the mutiny of the Crystal Braves - she would see them pay. Dearly.

.


End file.
